by Zane Grey
“Nix. I footed them hills all I’m a-goin’ to,” he said. “An’ from now on I rustle my own hoss.”
The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered Shady and Moze out to do their share.
“Jim, you’re the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you go,” suggested Anson. “You allus used to be the first one off.”
“Times has changed, Snake,” was the imperturbable reply.
“Wal, won’t you go?” demanded the leader, impatiently.
“I shore won’t.”
Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson’s gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted it. The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look.
“Boss, ain’t it funny how a pretty wench—?” began Shady Jones, sarcastically.
“Shut up, you fool!” broke in Anson. “Come on, I’ll help rustle them hosses.”
After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off into the forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale, with dark shadows. She asked for water to wash her face. Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf from his pack and carried them to her.
Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different with her hair arranged and the red stains in her cheeks.
“Miss, air you hungry?” asked Wilson.
“Yes, I am,” she replied.
He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a cup of coffee. Evidently she relished the meat, but she had to force down the rest.
“Where are they all?” she asked.
“Rustlin’ the hosses.”
Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the fleeting glance she gave him attested to a thought that his voice or demeanor had changed. Presently she sought a seat under the aspen-tree, out of the sun, and the smoke continually blowing in her face; and there she stayed, a forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant eyes.
The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent head, and hands locked behind him. But for the swinging gun he would have resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and hatless, with his brown vest open, his trousers stuck in the top of the high boots.
And neither he nor the girl changed their positions relatively for a long time. At length, however, after peering into the woods, and listening, he remarked to the girl that he would be back in a moment, and then walked off around the spruces.
No sooner had he disappeared—in fact, so quickly after-ward that it presupposed design instead of accident—than Riggs came running from the opposite side of the glade. He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to her feet.
“I hid—two of the—horses,” he panted, husky with excitement. “I’ll take—two saddles. You grab some grub. We’ll run for it.”
“No,” she cried, stepping back.
“But it’s not safe—for us—here,” he said, hurriedly, glancing all around. “I’ll take you—home. I swear.… Not safe—I tell you—this gang’s after me. Hurry!”
He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand. The moment had reddened his face, brightened his eyes, made his action strong.
“I’m safer—here with this outlaw gang,” she replied.
“You won’t come!” His color began to lighten then, and his face to distort. He dropped his hold on the saddles.
“Harve Riggs, I’d rather become a toy and a rag for these ruffians than spend an hour alone with you,” she flashed at him, in unquenchable hate.
“I’ll drag you!”
He seized her, but could not hold her. Breaking away, she screamed.
“Help!”
That whitened his face, drove him to frenzy. Leaping forward, he struck her a hard blow across the mouth. It staggered her, and, tripping on a saddle, she fell. His hands flew to her throat, ready to choke her. But she lay still and held her tongue. Then he dragged her to her feet.
“Hurry now—grab that pack—an’ follow me.” Again Riggs laid hold of the two saddles. A desperate gleam, baleful and vainglorious, flashed over his face. He was living his one great adventure.
The girl’s eyes dilated. They looked beyond him. Her lips opened.
“Scream again an’ I’ll kill you!” he cried, hoarsely and swiftly. The very opening of her lips had terrified Riggs.
“Reckon one scream was enough,” spoke a voice, slow, but without the drawl, easy and cool, yet incalculable in some terrible sense.
Riggs wheeled with inarticulate cry. Wilson stood a few paces off, with his gun half leveled, low down. His face seemed as usual, only his eyes held a quivering, light intensity, like boiling molten silver.
“Girl, what made thet blood on your mouth?”
“Riggs hit me!” she whispered. Then at something she feared or saw or divined she shrank back, dropped on her knees, and crawled into the spruce shelter.
“Wal, Riggs, I’d invite you to draw if thet ’d be any use,” said Wilson. This speech was reflective, yet it hurried a little.
Riggs could not draw nor move nor speak. He seemed turned to stone, except his jaw, which slowly fell.
“Harve Riggs, gunman from down Missouri way,” continued the voice of incalculable intent, “reckon you’ve looked into a heap of gun-barrels in your day. Shore! Wal, look in this heah one!”
Wilson deliberately leveled the gun on a line with Riggs’s starting eyes.
“Wasn’t you heard to brag in Turner’s saloon—thet you could see lead comin’—an’ dodge it? Shore you must be swift!… Dodge this heah bullet!”
The gun spouted flame and boomed. One of Riggs’s starting, popping eyes—the right one—went out, like a lamp. The other rolled horribly, then set in blank dead fixedness. Riggs swayed in slow motion until a lost balance felled him heavily, an inert mass.
Wilson bent over the prostrate form. Strange, violent contrast to the cool scorn of the preceding moment! Hissing, spitting, as if poisoned by passion, he burst with the hate that his character had forbidden him to express on a living counterfeit. Wilson was shaken, as if by a palsy. He choked over passionate, incoherent invective. It was class hate first, then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the hate of disgrace for a murder. No man so fair as a gun-fighter in the Western creed of an “even break”!
Wilson’s terrible cataclysm of passion passed. Straightening up, he sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the fire. Not many moments afterward he jerked his head high and listened. Horses were softly thudding through the forest. Soon Anson rode into sight with his men and one of the strayed horses. It chanced, too, that young Burt appeared on the other side of the glade. He walked quickly, as one who anticipated news.
Snake Anson as he dismounted espied the dead man.
“Jim—I thought I heard a shot.”
The others exclaimed and leaped off their horses to view the prostrate form with that curiosity and strange fear common to all men confronted by sight of sudden death.
That emotion was only momentary.
“Shot his lamp out!” ejaculated Moze.
“Wonder how Gunman Riggs liked thet plumb center peg!” exclaimed Shady Jones, with a hard laugh.
“Back of his head all gone!” gasped young Burt. Not improbably he had not seen a great many bullet-marked men.
“Jim!—the long-haired fool didn’t try to draw on you!” exclaimed Snake Anson, astounded.
Wilson neither spoke nor ceased his pacing.
“What was it over?” added Anson, curiously.
“He hit the gurl,” replied Wilson.
Then there were long-drawn exclamations all around, and glance met glance.
“Jim, you saved me the job,” continued the outlaw leader. “An’ I’m much obliged.… Fellars, search Riggs an’ we’ll divvy.… Thet all right, Jim?”
“Shore, an’ you can have my share.”
&nb
sp; They found bank-notes in the man’s pocket and considerable gold worn in a money-belt around his waist. Shady Jones appropriated his boots, and Moze his gun. Then they left him as he had fallen.
“Jim, you’ll have to track them lost hosses. Two still missin’ an’ one of them’s mine,” called Anson as Wilson paced to the end of his beat.
The girl heard Anson, for she put her head out of the spruce shelter and called: “Riggs said he’d hid two of the horses. They must be close. He came that way.”
“Howdy, kid! Thet’s good news,” replied Anson. His spirits were rising. “He must hev wanted you to slope with him?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t go.”
“An’ then he hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, recallin’ your talk of yestiddy, I can’t see as Mister Riggs lasted much longer hyar than he’d hev lasted in Texas. We’ve some of thet great country right in our outfit.”
The girl withdrew her white face.
“It’s break camp, boys,” was the leader’s order. “A couple of you look up them hosses. They’ll be hid in some thick spruces. The rest of us’ll pack.”
Soon the gang was on the move, heading toward the height of land, and swerving from it only to find soft and grassy ground that would not leave any tracks.
They did not travel more than a dozen miles during the afternoon, but they climbed bench after bench until they reached the timbered plateau that stretched in sheer black slope up to the peaks. Here rose the great and gloomy forest of firs and pines, with the spruce overshadowed and thinned out. The last hour of travel was tedious and toilsome, a zigzag, winding, breaking, climbing hunt for the kind of camp-site suited to Anson’s fancy. He seemed to be growing strangely irrational about selecting places to camp. At last, for no reason that could have been manifest to a good woodsman, he chose a gloomy bowl in the center of the densest forest that had been traversed. The opening, if such it could have been called, was not a park or even a glade. A dark cliff, with strange holes, rose to one side, but not so high as the lofty pines that brushed it. Along its base babbled a brook, running over such formation of rock that from different points near at hand it gave forth different sounds, some singing, others melodious, and one at least of a hollow, weird, deep sound, not loud, but strangely penetrating.
“Sure spooky I say,” observed Shady, sentiently.
The little uplift of mood, coincident with the rifling of Riggs’s person, had not worn over to this evening camp. What talk the outlaws indulged in was necessary and conducted in low tones. The place enjoined silence.
Wilson performed for the girl very much the same service as he had the night before. Only he advised her not to starve herself; she must eat to keep up her strength. She complied at the expense of considerable effort.
As it had been a back-breaking day, in which all of them, except the girl, had climbed miles on foot, they did not linger awake long enough after supper to learn what a wild, weird, and pitch-black spot the outlaw leader had chosen. The little spaces of open ground between the huge-trunked pine-trees had no counterpart up in the lofty spreading foliage. Not a star could blink a wan ray of light into that Stygian pit. The wind, cutting down over abrupt heights farther up, sang in the pine-needles as if they were strings vibrant with chords. Dismal creaks were audible. They were the forest sounds of branch or tree rubbing one another, but which needed the corrective medium of daylight to convince any human that they were other than ghostly. Then, despite the wind and despite the changing murmur of the brook, there seemed to be a silence insulating them, as deep and impenetrable as the darkness.
But the outlaws, who were fugitives now, slept the sleep of the weary, and heard nothing. They awoke with the sun, when the forest seemed smoky in a golden gloom, when light and bird and squirrel proclaimed the day.
The horses had not strayed out of this basin during the night, a circumstance that Anson was not slow to appreciate.
“It ain’t no cheerful camp, but I never seen a safer place to hole up in,” he remarked to Wilson.
“Wal, yes—if any place is safe,” replied that ally, dubiously.
“We can watch our back tracks. There ain’t any other way to git in hyar thet I see.”
“Snake, we was tolerable fair sheep-rustlers, but we’re no good woodsmen.”
Anson grumbled his disdain of this comrade who had once been his mainstay. Then he sent Burt out to hunt fresh meat and engaged his other men at cards. As they now had the means to gamble, they at once became absorbed. Wilson smoked and divided his thoughtful gaze between the gamblers and the drooping figure of the girl. The morning air was keen, and she, evidently not caring to be near her captors beside the camp-fire, had sought the only sunny spot in this gloomy dell. A couple of hours passed; the sun climbed high; the air grew warmer. Once the outlaw leader raised his head to scan the heavy-timbered slopes that inclosed the camp.
“Jim, them hosses are strayin’ off,” he observed.
Wilson leisurely rose and stalked off across the small, open patches, in the direction of the horses. They had grazed around from the right toward the outlet of the brook. Here headed a ravine, dense and green. Two of the horses had gone down. Wilson evidently heard them, though they were not in sight, and he circled somewhat so as to get ahead of them and drive them back. The invisible brook ran down over the rocks with murmur and babble. He halted with instinctive action. He listened. Forest sounds, soft, lulling, came on the warm, pine-scented breeze. It would have taken no keen ear to hear soft and rapid padded footfalls. He moved on cautiously and turned into a little open, mossy spot, brown-matted and odorous, full of ferns and bluebells. In the middle of this, deep in the moss, he espied a huge round track of a cougar. He bent over it. Suddenly he stiffened, then straightened guardedly. At that instant he received a hard prod in the back. Throwing up his hands, he stood still, then slowly turned. A tall hunter in gray buckskin, gray-eyed and square-jawed, had him covered with a cocked rifle. And beside this hunter stood a monster cougar, snarling and blinking.
CHAPTER XXII
“Howdy, Dale,” drawled Wilson. “Reckon you’re a little previous on me.”
“Sssssh! Not so loud,” said the hunter, in low voice. “You’re Jim Wilson?”
“Shore am. Say, Dale, you showed up soon. Or did you jest happen to run acrost us?”
“I’ve trailed you. Wilson, I’m after the girl.”
“I knowed thet when I seen you!”
The cougar seemed actuated by the threatening position of his master, and he opened his mouth, showing great yellow fangs, and spat at Wilson. The outlaw apparently had no fear of Dale or the cocked rifle, but that huge, snarling cat occasioned him uneasiness.
“Wilson, I’ve heard you spoken of as a white outlaw,” said Dale.
“Mebbe I am. But shore I’ll be a scared one in a minit. Dale, he’s goin’ to jump me!”
“The cougar won’t jump you unless I make him. Wilson, if I let you go will you get the girl for me?”
“Wal, lemme see. Supposin’ I refuse?” queried Wilson, shrewdly.
“Then, one way or another, it’s all up with you.”
“Reckon I ain’t got much choice. Yes, I’ll do it. But, Dale, are you goin’ to take my word for thet an’ let me go back to Anson?”
“Yes, I am. You’re no fool. An’ I believe you’re square. I’ve got Anson and his gang corralled. You can’t slip me—not in these woods. I could run off your horses—pick you off one by one—or turn the cougar loose on you at night.”
“Shore. It’s your game. Anson dealt himself this hand.… Between you an’ me, Dale, I never liked the deal.”
“Who shot Riggs?… I found his body.”
“Wal, yours truly was around when thet come off,” replied Wilson, with an involuntary little shudder. Some thought made him sick.
“The girl? Is she safe—unharmed?” queried Dale, hurriedly.
“She’s shore jest as safe an’ sound as when she was home. Dale, she�
�s the gamest kid thet ever breathed! Why, no one could hev ever made me believe a girl, a kid like her, could hev the nerve she’s got. Nothin’s happened to her ’cept Riggs hit her in the mouth.… I killed him for thet.… An’, so help me, God, I believe it’s been workin’ in me to save her somehow! Now it’ll not be so hard.”
“But how?” demanded Dale.
“Lemme see.… Wal, I’ve got to sneak her out of camp an’ meet you. Thet’s all.”
“It must be done quick.”
“But, Dale, listen,” remonstrated Wilson, earnestly. “Too quick ’ll be as bad as too slow. Snake is sore these days, gittin’ sorer all the time. He might savvy somethin’, if I ain’t careful, an’ kill the girl or do her harm. I know these fellars. They’re all ready to go to pieces. An’ shore I must play safe. Shore it’d be safer to have a plan.”
Wilson’s shrewd, light eyes gleamed with an idea. He was about to lower one of his upraised hands, evidently to point to the cougar, when he thought better of that.
“Anson’s scared of cougars. Mebbe we can scare him an’ the gang so it ’d be easy to sneak the girl off. Can you make thet big brute do tricks? Rush the camp at night an’ squall an’ chase off the horses?”
“I’ll guarantee to scare Anson out of ten years’ growth,” replied Dale.
“Shore it’s a go, then,” resumed Wilson, as if glad. “I’ll post the girl—give her a hunch to do her part. You sneak up tonight jest before dark. I’ll hev the gang worked up. An’ then you put the cougar to his tricks, whatever you want. When the gang gits wild I’ll grab the girl an’ pack her off down heah or somewheres aboot an’ whistle fer you.… But mebbe thet ain’t so good. If thet cougar comes pilin’ into camp he might jump me instead of one of the gang. An’ another hunch. He might slope up on me in the dark when I was tryin’ to find you. Shore thet ain’t appealin’ to me.”
“Wilson, this cougar is a pet,” replied Dale. “You think he’s dangerous, but he’s not. No more than a kitten. He only looks fierce. He has never been hurt by a person an’ he’s never fought anythin’ himself but deer an’ bear. I can make him trail any scent. But the truth is I couldn’t make him hurt you or anybody. All the same, he can be made to scare the hair off anyone who doesn’t know him.”
